Epitaph
by Laura Schiller
Summary: 2012 film. Valjean attends Javert's funeral.


Epitaph

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Les Miserables

(Author's Note: The name of Javert's superior and the "recommendations" he writes before his death are taken from the original novel.)

_The righteous shall go into life eternal. _

_- Matthew 25:46_

Jean Valjean could not repress a faint, sardonic smile as he read the inscription on the grave of the late Inspector Javert. It was so much like something his old adversary would say. Either he had chosen the epitaph himself in advance – Jean would not put it past him – or somebody had known him well enough to choose it for him, which was an odd thought in itself. Javert was the most unapproachable person Jean had ever met; he had often wondered if he, by turns subordinate, superior, enemy and savior over twenty years, was not the one who knew him best.

Wearing his old brown coat among so many blue or black uniforms, Jean began to feel on edge. He tugged his sleeves, making absolutely certain that the chain scars on his wrists were hidden, and wandered among the mourners, partly to disguise his solitude, partly to hear what they were saying. Javert had been a terror to criminals, a fierce protector to civilians, an enigma to Jean himself. What sort of legacy had he left among his own colleagues?

"Rumor has it he committed suicide," came a hushed, excited murmur from a young cadet on the fringes of the group. "If that is true, he has no right to even be buried here."

"Nonsense," snapped another young man, swatting the first speaker's arm and looking around for eavesdroppers. Jean turned away, hands in his pockets, pretending to casually observe a gravestone in the next row.

"He was a good Catholic, was Monsieur Inspector," insisted the second cadet. "An honorable man. He never would have – " He cut himself off, as if even naming the deed were heresy.

"You heard the medical man!" The first cadet leaned in closer, rocking on his heels. "No signs of a struggle on the corpse, he said. And we all know the old fox was far too clever to fall into the Seine by accident."

"Someone still could have pushed him."

"On the same day he wrote a suicide note to Gisquet?"

"Did he?" The new evidence appeared to distract Javert's defender. "What did it say?"

"Well … it was not a suicide note as such. It was a list of recommendations "for the good of the service" – the strangest things. Something about letting prisoners wear shoes. Surely that proves the old man was off his head?"

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, my friend," said the second cadet, shaking his head in exasperation, and clapping a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Now come along. We have reports to finish. And you'd better not let Monsieur Gisquet hear you speak this way."

His excitable friend protested, but by then they were too far away for Jean to hear clearly. He remained by the grave, looking down at the mound of earth and the plain gray stone, his hands bunched into fists inside his pockets. He had come so close to going after those boys, dragging them back by their shiny collars, to tell them – tell them what? That they were right, or that they were wrong?

How could they dare to be so disrespectful? And why did it even matter to Jean whether they were or not?

Intuition told him that the rumors were true. Inspector Javert had killed himself. In that light, the epitaph seemed even more ironic; by his own rules, he would have condemned himself to hell. Jean's suspicions had been growing ever since he'd read that article in the _Moniteur_; the debate he had just heard confirmed them. He shivered in the warm spring air and hunched into his coat. _Am I responsible?_

He could not have done otherwise than to let Javert go, not if he was to keep his promises to God and the Bishop. Still, he had known there was something wrong from the moment he had cut the spy's ropes. No man should look so horrified at being spared from death.

_What was wrong with you?_ he thought, wishing Javert were alive to hear him, knowing the idea was ludicrous. Even in life, the implacable Inspector had not been much more responsive than his own headstone. He would probably have died a thousand deaths rather than confide in the convict Valjean.

_Did you wish for death? Were you unhappy to have it denied you? Or was your mind so narrow, so limited, that you simply could not live with the contradictions of having a convict save your life?_

Back in prison, Jean had almost envied Javert: for his clear, untroubled conscience, his unquestioning faith. Javert had always appeared like a man at peace, as opposite to Jean as it was possible to be. Merciless to lawbreakers, of course, but at peace with himself. He could still remember the moment he had first seen the cracks in that façade. It was, oddly enough, one of the times he had respected Javert the most.

_Monsieur le Maire, I have a crime to declare … _The man had practically begged "Mayor Madeleine" to discharge him of duty, merely for suspecting him to be Jean Valjean. He had denounced himself as mercilessly as he had Fantine or any other culprit, standing at attention before his Mayor, mistaken honor tensing every line of his figure. Nine years later at the barricade, Jean had recognized the same look in his old enemy's eyes as he demanded to be shot, as if his life – or anyone's life – were not worth a _sou_ to him compared to the abstract concepts by which he lived.

Jean knew how it felt to be divided against himself, to walk with his soul in irons even when his hands were free. Such penance was sometimes necessary, even admirable - but the longer it lasted, the less chance there was of ever being free.

The Bishop had helped Jean to free himself, by showing him that God's love existed beyond human justice; that it could not be earned, only given. For all his piety, love was something Javert did not seem to have understood.

This funeral spoke volumes. If there was any human creature who had ever loved or been loved by this man, he or she was not there. The elegant officers recounting heroic tales (some featuring the deceased, but mostly themselves), the ugly rumors of suicide, the spectrum of emotions running coldly from respect to suspicion, were – paradoxically – one of the saddest things Jean had ever seen or heard. He did not flatter himself that his own funeral, which was probably not far off, would be any grand occasion, but he knew Cosette and Marius would weep for him, and he asked for nothing more. Such a simple, human need, to be mourned by those you left behind.

Now he knew why he had felt compelled to come here.

He thought of a different Bible verse which had touched his heart ever since he was a boy. All he could do was pray that its message would reach that noble, misguided man, and finally grant him peace.

_Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I shall give you rest._

_- Matthew 11:28_


End file.
